


(I Can't) Put On A Happy Face One Shot

by AJuneRose



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:08:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26299909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJuneRose/pseuds/AJuneRose
Summary: My imagination of what happens after the end of 16x21, Put On A Happy Face, when Meredith finds Andrew on the floor after Richard's surgery. All we get to see in the show is her helping him up; but as always, the superb actors of Grey's have left me wanting more, so I've done my best to fill in the gaps with this fic. Thanks for reading! :)
Relationships: Andrew DeLuca/Meredith Grey
Kudos: 45





	(I Can't) Put On A Happy Face One Shot

It is late when I find Andrew crumpled on the dirty floor in front of the nurses' station, his broad shoulders slumped in a way that sends an immediate stab of alarm through my heart.

But a hospital never sleeps, so even though it’s well past midnight, we are not alone in the hallway. The doctors and nurses who rush past us try to be discreet, but I can feel each of their curious stares burning into the back of my neck like acid.

I don’t turn around, but in addition to my constant awareness of the responsibilities of my position as Chief of General Surgery, I am also an intensely private person, and I can't help but feel uncomfortably self-conscious under their scrutiny.

I keep my voice carefully professional when I finally find the courage to address the obviously upset man in front of me. And I am surprised by how little the words betray my growing urge to rush to his side and thread my fingers gently through his luscious curls, or massage away the little creases of tension I see settling in between his brows.

 _Andrew_ , my mind whispers silently.

But "Dr. Deluca," is what comes out of my cowardly lips.

He does not react, and suddenly my feet are moving of their own accord, drawing me closer to him step by tentative step.

Initially, I wrongly assume that the anxiety I imagine I can feel radiating from him in waves must be related to Richard’s surgery, and I cringe at the sharp stab of guilt that lances quickly through my chest. I should have come to find Andrew immediately after they had finished, I think in shame. Or I should have invited him up into the gallery with me to watch; God knows he had earned that and more.

But I can’t fix the past. So I fill my quiet words with regretful apologies when I finally offer him an update on the surgery that I know his efforts alone made possible. "Dr. Deluca," I repeat softly. “It's over now. You were right about the hip; it was deteriorating. Link and Kim replaced it and thanks to you, Dr. Webber is doing fine. You probably saved his life."

But Andrew displays no relief at the good news; he makes no move to acknowledge my praise or even my presence. And when I finally notice how heavily he is breathing- his chest heaving with each wheezing gasp- I feel my initial concern deepen into something sharper and more urgent that compels me to bridge the remaining distance between us.

Abandoning all pretense of professionalism then, I drop my purse and sink to the ground in front of Andrew's bent knees, shivering a little when the cold of the tile floor beneath us leaches through my thin linen slacks and begins to settle ominously in my bones like a premonition.

"Andrew," I murmur as my eyes search his face- trading my façade of professionalism for overtly personal concern. And even though I try, I fail to keep the increasing alarm that is slowly twisting my stomach into anxious knots from bleeding into the familiar syllables of his name, or from showing in the sudden pallor of my cheeks.

Andrew seems like he is in a trance. His gorgeous hazel eyes continue to stare unseeingly at the wall behind me as if he has not even registered the obvious fear in my voice, as if he can’t see my face hovering only inches from his own. His unresponsiveness confuses me; but it is the completely uncharacteristic way that he doesn't melt into my touch when I rest a tentative hand on his exposed forearm that nudges my confusion across the line into barely restrained panic.

"Andrew, it’s over. Maggie said she would call us if there are any changes." I try again to explain, even though I am slowly becoming uneasily convinced that there must be some deeper reason for his dark mood than uncertainty over Richard’s surgery.

I can feel his muscles trembling beneath my cautious fingers as I rub one cool hand back and forth over his warm skin, my touch gently insistent, calling him back to me from wherever his mind has taken him captive. And when he raises his head to look up at me, finally, I think for a split second that I have succeeded.

But rather than reassuring me, the tangled emotions twisting Andrew’s expression into a grimace send a tidal wave of fear crashing over me. Because I recognize the lost emptiness in his bloodshot eyes; I have seen it in the mirror, staring back at me from my own reflection too many times to count.

He is crying, I realize numbly once I pull myself from my disjointed thoughts enough to focus on the present again; the handsome planes of his chiseled face shine with silent tears that I haven’t noticed until now. And when Andrew finally opens his mouth to answer me, his voice sounds all wrong; husky with panic and drained of the quiet steadiness that I have come to associate with him.

"I don’t-" he stutters brokenly through a sob that catches in his throat and makes his confession waver. "I can’t- uh..."

I wait respectfully, but he does not finish. His words trail abruptly off into tortured silence as he suddenly pulls his arm away from me and raises both trembling hands to his temples. At first, I think he’s going to rake a hand roughly back through his hair in the gesture of frustration that I secretly find adorable- the same motion he makes whenever an especially complicated surgery challenges him. But once he lifts his hands he freezes, letting them hover there by his cheekbones as if they didn't belong to him, or he had already forgotten what he’d meant to do with them.

For some reason, Andrew’s vacant disorientation is what pushes me over the edge. Suddenly I have to fight to steady my own breathing, fight to keep from being pulled down into a tailspin of familiar panic right along with him. And when he raises his eyes to mine, it feels like the sharpened terror I can see in their depths is slicing viciously into my soul.

"I don't- I don’t know what’s going on," Andrew whispers desperately to me, his voice cracking dangerously on the plea for help- like it is all he can manage before he completely falls apart.

"Ok, ok." I hear myself saying, subconsciously repeating the simple word in the same soothing tone I use to comfort my children when they wake up frightened from a nightmare. I can’t tell if Andrew finds it calming or patronizing, but the murmured litany seems to be helping me keep my composure, so I don’t stop- even as I surge forward to still his hands in my own when his fingers begin to scrape at his face in panic, leaving behind red scratches that mar perfect skin.

“It’s ok,” I promise him even though I’m not sure it’s the truth, digging deep inside to find the resolve to keep my voice from betraying how deeply his pain is affecting me. “It’s ok, Andrew.”

I hold his hands tightly between my own and meet his wild stare with what I hope is an outward expression of composed reassurance, but inwardly my mind races in time with my galloping heart. Because even though Andrew doesn’t know what is happening to him, I am beginning to realize with a sinking feeling of cold dread that I do.

_“Has Deluca been sleeping? Has he been eating? Meredith, open your eyes, he’s not ok.”_

Suddenly I can hear Maggie’s disapproving voice echoing through my mind again as clearly as if she were standing right beside me, and I feel my cheeks flush hot with shame for my selfishness as I am finally forced to confront the fallout of my single-minded focus on finding a cure for Richard.

 _Maggie was right_ , I think shakily. I have been too invested in the man who has been more of a father figure to me over the years than Thatcher ever was; I have been too absorbed in my worry to notice the signs that my sister and Carina had both tried to point out to me. But I can see them clearly now.

Sleep deprivation, stress, emotional upheaval… all three are common triggers for a manic phase of Bipolar disorder, which I finally realize is what has kept Andrew going for the past week- not caffeine, like I had so naively assumed. And now that I recognize that Andrew has been suffering from an episode of mania, I think I might also understand the debilitating strength of his current emotions.

The surgery is over, the adrenaline rush has ebbed, he has done the miraculous; and now I am watching as he comes crashing back down from the high of euphoria into the depressive episode that usually follows.

"Can we just go home?" I ask him gently, blinking to clear the tears that suddenly obscure my vison, making his handsome features blur before my eyes.

I know that I owe Andrew more than I will ever be able to repay; but I can start by at least getting him through this moment. So to keep myself from being engulfed by the yawning chasm of guilt that opens in my chest, I stretch out a hand toward him in silent invitation.

Andrew seems unable to answer, however; and after the space of a breath, I decide to ignore how strained things have been between us lately and take his hand in mine as I rise to stand, making the decision for him.

"Let’s go home, Andrew, ok?" I whisper. "It's all right, let’s just go home." I breathe a sigh of grateful relief that he lets me tug him to his feet, and that he doesn't resist when I wrap a supportive arm around his waist and guide him carefully though the halls of the hospital toward the elevators. But even though he leans against me unsteadily and throws a trembling arm heavily across my slight shoulders just to stay upright, Andrew still does not seem to register that we are moving.

 _This is a panic attack_ , I think with concern, glancing up at him in between pants of exertion; _and a severe one_.

I recognize the signs too easily, because I have lost track of how many times over the years my own breath has come in the same ragged gasps that I can hear rattling in Andrew’s chest now. I have lived with PTSD and anxiety since my early childhood; trauma has been a part of me for so long that now I expect the nightmares, and I am never surprised anymore when the panic finds me- only resigned.

But Andrew looks completely terrified and disoriented by what is happening to his body; I can feel his fear in the white- knuckled death grip that is almost certainly leaving finger- shaped bruises on my shoulder. Paralyzing panic is clearly not the same normal occurrence for him that it is for me.

This must be the first time Andrew has ever experienced these symptoms, I realize; and another stab of horrible guilt lances through my chest at the possibility that my own selfish need for his brilliance may have been the trigger that caused their onset. But at the same time, I also feel a tiny twinge of hope.

I know from the very limited education I received on Bipolar Disorder in medical school that it is much easier to treat if diagnosed early; so even though it is excruciating to watch him hurting, I feel cautiously grateful that I can be here to catalog his symptoms. Because if this is really Andrew’s first episode, and if I can describe it to a specialist with accuracy, then his treatment plan will be that much more straightforward and he will face a much smaller chance of having to endure a repeat of this horrible night in the near future.

Andrew stumbles a little then, tripping over his own shuffling feet, and I am pulled from my wildly spinning thoughts by the strangled moan of misery that the unexpected motion jostles loose from his parted lips. During these frustrating weeks without him, I have fantasized about hearing him moan for a vastly different reason, but never like this; I never want to hear this sound again. The vulnerability of it shatters something deep inside of me; and once the elevator doors close to shield us from prying eyes, I slip one hand up under his shirt to rub an open palm in slow, comforting circles over the bare skin of his muscular chest, hoping that the contact might help ground him.

"You’re ok, Andrew.” I do my best to comfort firmly. “You’re having a panic attack, but you’re safe. We will fix this, ok? Just breathe. Breathe with me."

I slowly exaggerate my inhales and exhales to offer him a baseline, trying to hold him together; trying to keep myself from falling apart.

In the face of Andrew’s distress, I feel my own dormant anxiety coming back to life, planting dark thoughts in my mind that all of this is my fault. And even though I know that is not fully true, I still accept blame for missing the signs that should have been so obvious.

I am a celebrated doctor, an award- winning surgeon at the pinnacle of my career- I should have seen him spiraling, I think desperately. I should have stepped in to offer help instead of dismissing the little changes I noticed in his mood as just excitement, or just youthful enthusiasm, or just Andrew.

Now try as I might, I can’t dismiss the heavy conviction that if I hadn’t let my selfish need for him- for his mind- overpower my concern, maybe things would never have progressed to this point at all. And maybe I would be touching him in an elevator tonight in celebration instead of consolation.

When the doors finally open to the lobby, I sigh deeply and take Andrew’s hand, squeezing gently before leading him slowly out into the brisk night air. He doesn’t question me as we cross the empty parking lot, or when we stop in front of my car; he just climbs silently into the passenger seat once I unlock the door and lets his body slump wearily back against the headrest.

Andrew doesn’t move to buckle himself either; so after a moment of hesitation, I do it for him, leaning close enough for the silky curtain of my loose hair to sweep against his face when I reach around him to fasten the seat belt.

Any other time, he would have taken advantage of my closeness. He would have smiled slowly and whispered a provocative suggestion in my ear as he grabbed at my hips in the way that he knew would make me gasp. But tonight, there is none of his usual flirty banter. Andrew just closes his eyes, unresistingly letting me maneuver his limp limbs, and I feel a sharp pang of loss for the normality I have taken for granted- for his hot breath on my neck and his soft lips on my ear.

When I settle myself into the driver’s seat and flip on the running lights, I notice somberly that the flow of his silent tears still has not stopped; I can see them shining in the dim light, dripping slowly from the sharp contours of his jaw. I have to bite my lip hard enough to draw blood in order to keep from crying too; but then I draw a steadying breath and turn left- toward my house and my bed- as I reach across the center console to gently squeeze his knee. Andrew is in no condition to be alone, and I have no intention of letting him out of my sight tonight.

As we drive, he is silent except for the slight wheezing of his still rapid breaths; but even though he doesn't acknowledge me, I can't seem to stop touching him. The hand that doesn’t have to hold the steering wheel steady wanders his body, moving gradually from his knee to his arm, massaging the too tight muscles in his bicep. And when we stop at a red light, I finally surrender to the need to run my fingers soothingly through his thick, curly hair.

There's a tightness in my chest that is eased by the reassuring solidness of him under my fingers, so I obey the instinct to maintain physical contact as we drive the last few miles home, wondering distractedly if my touch tethers Andrew like his always does for me, and if it will be enough to keep him from slipping away.

The house is dark when I pull my Lexus into the empty driveway, and I sigh gratefully at the indication that everyone I live with must be either already asleep or still at the hospital. The last thing Andrew needs tonight is an audience, I tell myself to explain my relief. But if I am honest, I know that I need the privacy as much as he does.

Watching Andrew fall apart has been slowly triggering my own self destruction; and now when I close my eyes, I can feel the familiar swell of nameless dread bubbling just beneath the surface of my carefully constructed calm. So it’s a good thing that the house is dark, because there is no way I could ever make it through a probing conversation with my worried sisters tonight. Right now, I am just praying that I can make it up the stairs.

Andrew has shifted sometime during the drive, and when I turn to tell him we have arrived at the house, he is slumped against the door of the car, his face pressed uncomfortably into the cold glass of the window. At first, I think he has fallen asleep. But when I rub persistent circles between his shoulder blades and announce quietly, "Andrew, we're here." He stiffens under my hands and I know that he is still awake.

"Can you make it inside?" I ask him gently, watching the muscles in his jaw work furiously as he struggles to regain some semblance of control over himself.

He doesn’t answer for a long moment, and I wait in patient silence, but internally I fight a flare of panic. All at once, I realize that I haven’t thought my plan through at all. In my urgency to get Andrew someplace safe, someplace private, I have not even stopped to consider what I would do if his panic continued to escalate until he was too upset to move.

I study Andrew again under the dim light of the pre-dawn sky in growing concern, noting his broad shoulders and the prominent muscles that fill out his scrub shirt so distractingly. I have taken care of myself over the years, and even pushing 40 I am proud to be still as lithe and fit as a woman half my age. But I estimate that Andrew has at least a 70 lb advantage on my petite frame, and I know that if he can’t walk, there is no way I will be able to get him into my room without help.

I am just pulling out my cell phone to reluctantly dial Alex's number from memory when Andrew nods almost imperceptibly against the window, breathing an unconvincing "Yes," in belated answer to my question.

Still uncertain, I hesitate to assess him for a moment longer; but eventually I nod and slip the cell phone back into my purse. I have no doubt that Alex would come to help me maneuver my catatonic boyfriend upstairs with no judgement and no questions asked, but I am far less confident that Jo would be equally understanding. So, I decide to ignore my lingering doubt and give Andrew a chance before I wake Alex and incur his girlfriend’s wrath for the next month.

"Ok." I acquiesce softly as I step out of the car, closing my door carefully so that it doesn’t slam and wake the kids before I cross to the passenger side and offer him my hand. "Let's go."

Andrew clings to me like a lifeline as our shoes crunch up the gravel of the front walk; but he holds himself stiffly upright, resolutely keeping pace with my slow steps, and I find myself flooded all over again with fresh admiration for this man beside me.

Once we reach the front door, I briefly fumble in the darkness to fit my key into the lock. But after a frustrating delay, the door swings open on silent hinges and I reach back to guide Andrew inside the foyer. He stumbles forward out of my grasp when I turn to shut the door behind us, grabbing at the wooden banister of the stair rail as he doubles over, panting as heavily as if the short walk from the car had been a marathon.

"It’s OK. It’s OK, you're doing great." I comfort quietly, doing my best to mask how much it wrecks me to see him this way by pouring every ounce of reassurance that I can muster into my voice.

"Wait for me here, ok?" I direct in a whisper, making a flash decision to grab something from the kitchen. "Andrew, just a minute, I’ll be right back."

I don’t need to turn on a light to find the cabinet I am looking for; my hands know the way even in the dark. My fingers recognize the familiar shape of the bottle of Xanax immediately, skilled from countless nights of terrified practice. I grab the small, plastic container and am back at his side in seconds, winding a careful arm around his waist in support once more as I mount the first stair.

"All right, ready?" I ask with an encouraging smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “I’ve got you, I promise. It’s not very far.”

But Andrew seems to be growing increasingly unsteady on his feet, and the short staircase suddenly seems to stretch interminably ahead of us. The weight that he trusts me to bear grows heavier and heavier as we climb, and I stumble once beneath it, biting my tongue again to keep from cursing loudly enough to wake my sleeping family when I catch my shin painfully on the sharp edge of a wooden step.

It seems to take forever, and we are both shaking and sweating by the time we reach the upstairs landing; but we make it, and I breathe an exhausted thank you to an indifferent universe. I am on high- alert as I feel my way through the darkened hallway toward my bedroom, wincing every time the old house’s floorboards creak under our feet and casting worried glances over my shoulder at the doors to the kids’ rooms. But all remains mercifully still.

And when I lead Andrew into my room and the heavy oak door closes behind us with a quiet click, I close my eyes for a steadying moment to savor the feeling of safety that the quiet always brings me.

When I open them again, Andrew is still standing uncertainly in the middle of the bedroom. His empty brown eyes stare back at me vacantly when I turn toward him, and for one frozen moment, I don’t know what to do. But Andrew looks like he is about to pass out; the exertion of the stairs has faded his golden tan to an alarming shade of white, and fear snaps me out of my mental paralysis, makes me hurry to guide him down onto my mattress before he can fall.

Even after he is sitting down though, his breath still comes too fast for my comfort, and he sways like a ship tossed on rough waves, listing dizzily into my hip as I stand in front of him. So I push his head gently forward and hold it in between his knees, counting softly to 60 and offering quiet reassurances as I wait for his swaying to ease.

“This will help the dizziness, Andrew; try to count with me, ok?”

He isn’t improving; I think with a frown of fresh alarm, noting again the trembling that has never calmed and the tears that still haven’t stopped. I glance down at the Xanax still clutched in my fist- an answer for his pain, at least for the night. But still I am hesitant to give Andrew the drug if it isn’t absolutely necessary. Technically, sharing prescriptions is illegal, and as surgeons, we both have a responsibility to adhere to a high ethical standard.

But I can’t take much more of this; even though I know that panic attacks aren’t dangerous, I love him too much to be clinical or objective. And Xanax is a benzo, I reason with myself internally as I run a nervous hand over his tousled hair; it’s likely the exact same medication that would be prescribed to him if I were to bring him into the ER right now, obviously suffering from such a severe anxiety attack.

So a split second later, I make my decision. I am just as capable of figuring out an accurate dosage as an overworked PA, I tell myself firmly; and my room is a far more soothing environment than the harsh lights of the hospital we had just left. Rubbing a hand briskly across Andrews knee, I leave him slumped on my bed to stride quickly into the en-suite bathroom, returning as soon as I can with a glass of cold water from the sink. Kneeling once more between his legs, I explain gently,

“Andrew, I have some Alprazolam that I think can help you, ok? I just need you to tell me your weight. Do you know how much you weigh?”

He’s so far gone that I’m not even sure if he can hear me anymore, and I feel terrible asking him such a difficult question when he hasn’t even been able to utter a full sentence since I found him. I know I can estimate his weight fairly accurately if I have to; but benzos are addictive drugs even at their lowest possible dosages, so before I take the risk of guessing, I wait hopefully for his answer.

It takes a long, tense moment, but eventually Andrew clears his throat roughly and chokes out “One eighty… five”, and I feel dizzy when I squeeze his hand in relieved gratitude.

It takes me only seconds to calculate his dosage then: he gets two of my 0.5 milligram pills. I offer the little blue capsules to him in one outstretched palm, and the glass of water in the other.

“Here,” I say quietly, pressing the medication carefully into one of his trembling hands. “Do you think you can take these?”

He nods shakily and moves to raise his hand to his mouth, but the motion seems strangely jerky and uncoordinated, so I help guide his hand before he accidentally drops the pills, and then I hold the water carefully up to his lips. Once he swallows the medication, I feel a huge burden lift off her chest in relief just at knowing that soon this will be over. And when I notice Andrew’s eyes following me glassily as I set the cup carefully back down onto the side table by my bed, I smile tightly up at him.

“They’re immediate release, Andrew.” I say reassuringly in response to his empty stare, trying not to let him see how it breaks my heart. “You should feel the medication hitting your system in about 15 minutes.”

10 milligrams is a fairly aggressive dose; and once the Xanax kicks in, I know from experience that he won’t be able to move anymore, not even with my help. So I push through a wall of exhaustion, forcing myself to rise wearily back up onto my aching feet and finish preparing for bed so I can lay down with him when it hits.

Andrew watches distantly as I strip in front of him, but there is no seduction in my movements tonight, only weary expediency. And once I have exchanged my formal pantsuit for a comfortable nightgown, I turn to pull a pair of soft, drawstring pajama pants out of my dresser drawer that has become his. Then I cross softly back over to the bed to sit down beside him.

I can see his eyelids beginning to flutter already, weighed down by the drugs and the exhaustion of the past hour’s emotional ordeal, and I can feel the familiar ache of fatigue settling painfully into my own body as well. All I want in that moment is to curl up beside him and give into the pull of sleep, but his scrubs are dirty from a long shift and I don’t want hospital germs in my clean bed. So I rub his back even though I’m regretful to rouse him, and ask softly,

“Andrew, do you want to change out of your scrubs?”

He opens his eyes to stare blearily at me, but the panic that has been shining in his gaze is finally fading, and he seems just clear enough to nod in weary response.

“Ok. Then raise your arms,” I direct, tugging his shirt gently over his head when he limply complies. Next, I kneel to removes his shoes, then stand to tug at the waistband of his pants, helping him balance unsteadily and slide the rough material off of his body. When I hand him the pajamas, he just blinks at them in confusion for a long moment, until I murmur, “Here, let me help.” I only need to carefully guide one bare foot through the opening of the pants leg, and then his body remembers the motions.

Once we are both changed, I toss the discarded clothing into a forgotten heap in the corner of the room and turn out the lights, releasing a shaky breath of relief as I slip in between the cool sheets of my bed. After a pause, Andrew falls clumsily back into the pillows beside me, and I don’t fight the urge to curl automatically against him when I cover us both with the comforting weight of the duvet.

I can feel it the moment the Xanax hits his bloodstream; every tensed muscle in his body goes suddenly slack and he melts into my side, seemingly boneless, with a sobbing exhale of shaky relief that makes my stomach jump. And I am relieved too; inexpressibly glad to hear the cadence of his heart returning to a normal speed beneath my ear as I wait for my own racing pulse to slow.

I’m hovering just on the edge of sleep when he whispers my name. The word rouses me, rumbling deep in his chest.

“Mmerdith,” Andrew slurs. He sounds tipsy, the syllables of my name are slightly distorted from the strength of the drugs coursing through his system.

“Hmmm?” I respond softly, tracing a finger through the soft, fluffy hair on his chest as I try to pull my brain from its drowsy haze.

“Mmm Spiacente…”

_I’m sorry._

He sounds broken; slipping subconsciously from the effort of English back into his native whispered Italian, like I have learned that he does whenever he is upset. And my fingers still as pain slices through my heart; devastated that he would be the one apologizing when there was no question that it should be me.

“No,” I breathe in the safety of the darkness, also answering in the stumbling Italian I can remember from my years abroad. I blink back tears that I am grateful he cannot see when I whisper, “No, Andrea. Non hai nulla di cui dispiacerti. Sono io quello che dovrebbe scusarmi, avrei dovuto vedere cosa stava succedendo... forse avrei potuto aiutare.”

 _You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who should apologize, I should have seen what was going on… maybe I could have helped_.

His warm breath ruffles my hair when he sighs, and I know with absolute, aching certainty that I don’t deserve someone this pure and good. Andrew is an open book, and I don’t deserve the forgiveness I can read in the press of his hip against mine.

“Mmi sento wrong…” He whispers then, the confession a confusing jumble of languages and inflections that I barely understand until he says seriously, in somber English,

“Mer, I think I’m broken.”

When he trails off, I finish for him, swallowing past a painful lump in my throat to murmur in quiet resolution,

“I know. I know, Andrew. But we’re going to fix it, ok? I promise.”

I rub his arm until I feel him succumb to sleep a few minutes later, his breathing finally evening out as the drugs do their job, scrubbing all evidence of the ordeal from his body. I have been awake for almost 36 hours by this point, and exhaustion tugs at my eyelids too, but still I study Andrew for a moment as he snores, letting his peaceful expression soothe my nerves before I close my eyes.

I briefly wonder if I should be afraid to go to sleep; I have no personal experience with Bipolar Disorder beyond what I have seen on TV, and a tiny, ignorant corner of my mind worries that I might wake up next to a stranger. But then Andrew rolls over in his sleep to sling a gentle arm low across my hips, pulling my body close to his in a familiar embrace that is somehow the same as always, even under the influence of the drugs and the depression.

And the fear vanishes in an instant, because I know then beyond a shadow of a doubt that it doesn’t matter at all which version of Andrew is waiting for me when I wake up- because he will love me in all of his moods.

I am not even tempted to take one the Xanax pills for myself tonight; just his touch is enough to make my panic recede. And a warm feeling floods my chest, slowly replacing the fear, as I nestle my head into the little hollow between his shoulder and his neck where it fits perfectly.

The last conscious thought that runs through my mind is that I love him too; and I decide then that I am in this for the long haul. I know that soon enough Andrew will discover that he is not the only one with demons, I have plenty of my own monsters to fear; and just before I follow him into sleep, I hope with all of my heart that when the time comes, he will make the same choice I have made tonight. I hope that he will choose to stay.


End file.
